


L'Chaim

by Linguini



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Birthday, Douglas is a stoic sort, Gen, Loneliness, but Martin is a good friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 05:43:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linguini/pseuds/Linguini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt on the meme:  "It's Douglas's birthday and he's thinks he's going to be spending it alone, lonely and miserable with just his piano for company, like he has every birthday since Helena left. He's wrong."</p>
            </blockquote>





	L'Chaim

"Post landing checks complete, Captain. And--"

Martin grimaces and glances sidelong at his co-pilot. "And what?" he asks warily.

Douglas grins as he rises. "Prestidigitation."

"Damn," Martin groans. "I should have thought of that one!"

Douglas takes his hat from Martin’s hand and plants it cheekily on his head. "Well, then Captain, that's the flight plan, the load sheet, the walk 'rounds, _and_ the radio checks for the next month. Would you care to try again next time?”

“No,” Martin huffs. “It’s more than even _my_ pride can take.” He follows Douglas down the stairs, pausing at the bottom to tie his shoelace. “Besides, you’ve pretty much covered the entire flight manual anyway.”

Douglas grins woflishly down at him. “The _flight manual_ yes. But I’m sure there’s one or two other things I could think of.”

“Ugh. No. Absolutely not. Flight duties are more than enough, there’s no way I’m ending up with your domestic ones as well.”

“Well then, Captain. I will bid you adieu until we meet again on the fields of friendly strife.” Douglas doffs his cap at Martin and strikes out for his car, pausing only to give a jaunty wave in Carolyn’s direction.

Martin huffs as he finishes with his laces, tugging his jacket back into place as he stands and making sure his cap is on straight. There’s no one around to see, but that’s no excuse for not having a properly put-together uniform.

He passes Carolyn and Arthur on their way out. “Don’t be too long,” Carolyn chides. “I’m not paying for electricity for the fun of it, you know.”

Martin nods and waves at them absentmindedly; he’s only aiming for the paperback he’s left on his desk. It’s been a long flight and he feels he’s earned himself a bit of a night off from the usual drudgery of chores. Just as he’s checking to make sure Carolyn’s windows are secure, the Portakabin phone rings. Martin grabs for the handset out of habit, even though he knows no one calls so late at night for anything good.

“Hullo. MJN Air. Captain Martin Crieff speaking. How may I help you?”

“Hello?” A small voice comes through the speaker. “Uncle Martin?”

“Emily,” he says, grinning into the receiver. “Nice to hear from you. What’s up?”

“Is Daddy around?” she asks.

“No, I’m afraid you just missed him; he’s already gone home. Did you try his mobile?”

“Yes,” she answers. “I just wanted to call and say happy birthday, but he’s not answering.”

“It’s probably because he’s driving,” Martin replies. “Wait another ten minutes or so and you’ll most likely catch him at home. Unless he’s supposed to be meeting you somewhere?”

Emily sighs, too grownup for her twelve years. “No. I wanted to come down, but James got the chicken pox and Mummy says Daddy’s never had it, so we can’t visit.”

“Douglas hasn’t had the chicken pox?!”

“No. He says it’s the famous Richardson luck. I haven’t had it yet, either. Do you think I’m a lucky Richardson, too, like Daddy?”

He chuckles into the phone. “I have never met anyone more like your Daddy, my dear. If I were to pick one person most likely to inherit that luck, it would be you.” Her quiet answering pride practically sings down the line.

A voice in the background. “Oh. Mummy says I have to go. But...”

“But what, Em?” Martin asks.

“Only...I haven’t talked to Daddy yet, and it’s past my bedtime. Can you tell him I said happy birthday, please? And that I’m sorry his present didn’t get there in time, but we’ll mail it soon.”

Martin nods into the phone. “Of course.” His voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “Hey, Em. Do you think if _he_ called _you_ you’d be able to talk to him?”

Emily hums a bit, a tune Martin recognizes as a higher-pitched version of Douglas’s “thinking” noise. “I think so. She has the other times he’s called too late after a long flight. And especially on his birthday. Can you try, please Uncle Martin?”

“Of course. Hopefully, he’ll talk to you soon.” He hangs up the line and ponders a bit. He hadn’t known it was Douglas’s birthday, which isn’t too terribly unexpected, given he only knows the barest details of his First Officer’s life. He tries Douglas’s mobile, which goes directly to answerphone. 

Martin sighs. So much for his quiet night of reading. Still, he’d promised Emily, and he’s just as incapable of disappointing her as her father. As he drives in search of his errant first officer, he ponders the conundrum of Douglas’s uncharacteristic silence on the subject. The older man hadn’t mentioned it, but then neither had Carolyn or Arthur, who’ve known him longer. Martin would have expected the man with an ego the size of Africa to have at least said something, for the sake of more time in the limelight.

When he arrives at Douglas’s house, Martin’s puzzled. The Lexus is in the drive, but the lights are off, with the exception of a small glow from the room at the front of the house. There’s a tiny bit of sound, muffled through the door, as he knocks, but it ends almost instantaneously. The Douglas that answers has already shed his uniform, standing in the doorway in bare feet.

“Oh, Martin,” he says, looking confused. “Did I forget something?”

Martin shakes his head and shivers, standing on the doorstep. “No. Nothing like that. Ems called for you, but you weren’t answering your phone.”

Douglas looks a bit chagrined. “Ah. Battery ran out, I’m afraid. I lent it to Arthur on the way back to play that game with the chickens and the hippos or whatever. Should be charging now, though. Did she say why she’d called?”

“Ah, yes, she did, actually,” Martin says and then shivers again. Douglas looks embarrassed at his lack of manners, and ushers Martin into the sitting room, offering him a cup of tea from the teapot sitting on the side table.

“Happy birthday,” Martin says, apropos of nothing. Douglas looks a bit startled. 

“Oh, thank you.”

“That’s why she called,” Martin continues. “To wish you a happy birthday. I told her I’d see if I couldn’t find you to call her back.”

Douglas’s face brightens instantly at the thought, and he excuses himself to the kitchen to make the call. Martin stands there uncertainly, clutching the mug in his cold hands, torn between rudely leaving without saying goodbye and rudely staying while Douglas is having a private conversation. While he dithers, he listens to the low rumble of his first officer, voice infinitely lighter than he hears it any other time, and wanders around the sitting room, glancing at what few artifacts Douglas keeps from his previous lives. He almost doesn’t notice the glass of whiskey on the piano, nearly hidden behind the book Douglas has propped open until he returns a framed picture he’s taken from beside it. He can’t tell how much the glass started with and whether Douglas has actually had any, but even the sight of the placid amber liquid is enough for a cold stone to form in his gut.

Martin hears Douglas’s voice reach its wrapping-up tones, and quickly scuttles away from the piano, making sure he’s examining some picture on the wall of a much younger Douglas and a very old plane by the time he comes back.

“Good talk?” Martin asks.

A pleased glow gentles Douglas’s usual lines and planes, giving him a bit of a softer posture. “Very,” is all he says. 

Martin nods and takes a sip of his tea for something to do with his mouth that isn’t asking the question burning the tip of his tongue. Douglas reads him like a book anyway. “Ah, I see you’ve seen the glass.”

Face flushing in embarrassment, Martin nods again. To his amazement, Douglas is the first to break eye contact, glancing over to something in the middle distance that only he can see. “I...didn’t. Just so you know. I was never going to.” He gestures to the sofa in an invitation for Martin to sit, which he accepts.

“Good,” he says, then trails off uncertainly. But Martin is nothing if not brave and persistent, so he gathers every scrap of authority he can and wraps it around himself like a cloak. “Then why?”

Douglas slouches into his chair insouciantly, stretching his long legs out in front of him, and shrugs a bit. “No particular reason. Bit of a test of self-control, I suppose.”

Martin’s confused. “Why would you....I mean, what’s the point of putting yourself in that situation?” Then he finally gains control of the brain-to-mouth process and snaps his teeth together, horrified at himself. “I’m sorry, that was...It’s none of my business.”

Douglas sighs. “You’re right. ...for the most part. It _isn’t_ your business. But, I suppose it would be churlish not to answer when you’ve done a...favor of sorts for me. I answer your question with a question. Why do you practice emergency procedures?”

Martin responds instantly. “To ensure that the movements required of the flight crew are deeply ingrained into muscle memory, which reduces response times and increases the likelihood of surviving the emergency.”

Douglas nods, then pauses, evidently stringing his words together carefully. “It’s a lot like flying, this...disease. You know, with absolute certainty, that anything can go wrong. You’re sitting in a thin metal tube thousands of meters above the ground filled with one of the most combustible substances known to mankind through unknown weather often in foreign lands with nothing to guide you but your wits and and your instruments. It’s a very dangerous thing, this flying lark. And no matter how experienced you are, or how confident you get, there’s always that possibility, nibbling away at the margins of your mind, that one day something could go terribly, disastrously wrong. You hope you have the talent and the luck to pull out of it, but what if you don’t? The only thing to do is to increase your odds of survival, to ensure you don’t crash and burn. And that only happens through practice. So....I practice from time-to-time. To build new SOPs and to...fixate techniques and procedures in my muscle memory.”

Martin ponders this for a bit. “And....does it work? This practice?”

Douglas shrugs. “It has for nine years, seven months and sixteen days.” A rueful smile.

“Well then,” Martin says, and tips his mug in Douglas’s a direction. “A toast. To you, Douglas, and your training plan.”

A small smile threatens at the corners of Douglas’s mouth and he tips his mug in return. “Thank you, Martin.”

They sit there by the warmth of the fire, by turns chatting amicably or sitting in silent contemplation of the flames. Martin is encouraged that Douglas seems more mellow than usual, probably an effect of having spoken to Emily earlier--encouraged enough to venture another question.

“Douglas?” he asks, as the fire begins to dwindle. “Why didn’t you say anything about it being your birthday earlier?”

Douglas stares into his mug, swirling the dregs of the tea around, and shrugs lightly. “Never occurred to me,” he says. Martin scoffs at him.

“Of course it occurred to you! Everything occurs to you. Which means you decided not to. Why?”

Douglas shrugs again. “I figured everyone already knew, and why make a fuss over an unimportant date? Besides, I was afraid it would mean Arthur would bake me a cake.”

Martin shivers in revulsion. “Ah. Fair point. But,” he hesitates, uncertain of his footing. “You should know...it’s not unimportant.”

Douglas blinks, briefly startled, then his casual aloofness returns. “Of course not,” Douglas says, then remains silent on the subject. Martin can sense he’s outstayed his welcome and makes his goodbyes, pausing at the doorway and sticking out his hand awkwardly.

“Happy birthday, Douglas,” he says again. “I’m glad you got to talk to Emily. And...and I’m glad to fly with you. _Proud,_ in fact. Even if you are a bit of a sneak and a rule-breaker.”

Douglas smiles at him at the last, the slightly sardonic one he uses on the other members of MJN when he’s trying to distance himself from them. “Thank you, Martin. I’m pleased to have my Captain’s approval.”

Martin nods sharply at him once and then turns on his heel, hearing the soft click of the door behind him. The muffled sound from earlier that evening starts up again, though this time he recognizes it as Douglas on the piano. The tune’s not the same somber one from before, but nor could it be described as “happy” or “jaunty.” It’s just a steady, graceful melody, much like the man himself, that drifts into the night air and hangs there for a moment before disappearing into the moonlight. Martin thinks it’s called “Contentment.”


End file.
